


It's a Good Cop Life

by Eienvine



Category: The Good Cop (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - It's a Wonderful Life Fusion, Christmas, F/M, The Good Cop Christmas Fic Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-22 14:08:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17061206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine
Summary: "Everyone I know would be be happier if I’d never been born at all,” TJ declares.He steals a glance at the man who claims to be his guardian angel, expecting him to look amused or judgmental at his outburst. But instead the man looks very thoughtful. “That’s what you think?” he asks, and smiles. “All right, done. You’ve never been born.”---For the Good Cop Christmas Fic Challenge. Prompt: inspired by It's A Wonderful Life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case you're curious: this is set in a world where IAWL doesn't exist, so TJ doesn't notice how similar his situation is to said movie. :)

. . . . . .

It’s been a roller coaster of a year, to be honest, equal parts towering highs and crushing lows: on the positive side, the Caruso men are rebuilding their relationship, and the All-City Homicide squad has closed some major cases—so much so that TJ received a very unexpected and very flattering job offer, to be captain of a precinct up in Boston. Despite it being a major step up, he’s planning on turning it down, because everyone he knows and loves is in New York. But still, he’s feeling pretty good about himself right now.

But on the other hand, this is also the year when TJ nearly started dating a murderer and was at the center of the biggest cheating scandal in Brooklyn Bowling League history, Tony was humiliated on national TV and nearly got his son fired by hiding an escaped felon in the basement, and Cora was conned into marrying a cheating liar who then very nearly threw her out a window.

So, not a uniformly great year.

So TJ’s not that surprised when Christmas Eve turns out to be a disaster.

It starts out promisingly enough; the whole squad has to work that day, but they don’t have anything big on their plates, and unless they catch a major case in the next few hours, they might actually get Christmas day off. TJ invited all of them, including the first/third Mrs. Loomis, over for a Christmas Eve do that evening, which has earned him a great deal of goodwill in the squadroom. And then, knowing that both Ryan and Cora have no family and no Christmas plans, Big Tony invited them both to sleep over at the Caruso home and do the whole Christmas morning shindig. Ryan started crying on being asked, and Cora played it off like it was no big deal but her eyes told a different story.

So TJ starts Christmas Eve morning with high hopes that the day will go well. Snow is falling gently—the nice, pretty, Christmas kind of snow—and there are decorations in the stores and on the streets, and everywhere he goes Bing is crooning his favorite carols, and he anticipates getting to spend tonight and tomorrow with the people he loves the best. The world, TJ decides, is a wonderful place at Christmastime.

That only lasts until two that afternoon, when he receives an e-mail from Captain Delghetty informing him that the squad might be facing a lawsuit: a man who’d been a chief suspect in a recent investigation—one who’d been exonerated by TJ’s team, mind you—is threatening to sue over what he considers to be discrimination by the police department. TJ knows his own behavior in the case was above reproach—that’s one advantage of always following all the rules—but he doesn’t know if he can say the same about Cora and Burl. And it puts a damper on the upcoming celebrations, to have the threat of this lawsuit hanging over his head.

Things get worse. At four that afternoon, TJ finds a cup of coffee (lukewarm, fortunately) dumped down the front of his shirt. It’s the stupidest accident—it’s not even a chase or a suspect, just a lady not paying attention as she steps out of a Dunkin’ Donuts—but he’s not going to let it ruin his day. He’s only a mile from home, so he decides he’ll grab himself a new shirt and get on his merry way.

But that’s not in the cards. Because when he steps into the house, it’s to see that the living room is full of very nice TVs in various states of unwrapping. That, and the presence of Wendell, would be suspicious enough, but Tony Sr.’s look of wide-eyed surprise and dismay confirms it.

“Junior!” he says, a second too late to sound casual. “You’re home early!”

TJ takes a calming breath. “Dad, what is going on here?”

Wendell and Tony both jump in with a variety of unconvincing and contradictory excuses, but by the time Wendell has slunk out in shame, the basics are clear: Wendell’s got a cousin who knows a guy, the TVs fell off the back of a truck, they thought they could make some quick cash selling these as last minute Christmas gifts.

The argument that follows is pretty epic, even by Caruso standards. TJ can’t understand how his dad thinks dealing in stolen goods is acceptable when his son is a cop; Tony can’t understand why his son doesn’t see what a great financial opportunity this is. And maybe it’s the fact that things have been so good for so long that makes the argument so heated; TJ had started to let himself believe that maybe his father was really turning over a new leaf, so this feels like a particularly heinous betrayal of his trust.

It ends badly: TJ says “I can’t believe I ever thought us trying to live together was a good idea” and Tony says “I can’t believe I ended up with a son who’s such a narc,” and TJ says “This is really disappointing” and Tony says “Lucky for me, I’m used to you disappointing me.”

To Tony’s credit, his face immediately fills with shame at what he’s said, and he immediately starts trying to apologize and backpedal, but TJ can’t sit here and listen to it, because there’s a really good chance that this will end with one or both of them in tears and/or murdered.

So he storms out of the house, and is walking into the station by the time he realizes that his shirt still has a coffee stain down the front of it. It’s too late to do anything now, and there’s only an hour of work left, so he buttons his coat closed and stalks to his office. His phone has been blowing up with calls and texts from his dad, which he is not in the mood to deal with, so he puts his phone in his office drawer and shuts it. Then he loses himself in catching up on paperwork.

But this day is not done upsetting him, because twenty minutes before the end of the day, Cora storms into his office, her eyes blazing.

“How could you, Caruso?” she demands, and TJ can only blink, because he’s barely even spoken to Cora today so he has no idea what he could have done to upset her so much.

“How could I . . . ?”

“First you get Burl reprimanded for sleeping on the job, and now this?”

“I didn’t get Burl reprimanded,” TJ insists, genuinely baffled as to what she’s talking about. “And what is ‘this’?”

She brandishes a piece of paper at him. “It wasn’t enough that you lowered the score on my personnel evaluation after that case on the Drake? You had to lower it even further?”

TJ’s brow furrows. “Even further?”

“Look at this!” she commands, and slaps the paper down on his desk. “I’ve been officially reprimanded based on your evaluation! Reprimanded! Officially! Now I’ll never get promoted!”

Glad to have something sensible to do in the midst of illogical behavior, TJ looks at the paper. It is indeed an official reprimand, signed by Captain Delghetty, stating that the scores received by Cora Vasquez on her personnel evaluation fall well below the standards required for employment, and she will be subject to further investigation and potential suspension or termination after the holidays.

And TJ can only stare at her. “This is a mistake,” he says firmly. “I didn’t change your evaluation. I turned it in after I showed you the updated version last month. I haven’t touched it since. And I didn’t give you scores this low.”

But Cora is too mad to heed him. “I know you think you’re such a better cop than the rest of us, but geez, Caruso, it’s my first year! Give me a break!”

“This isn’t—”

She runs a hand through her hair. “I shoulda stayed where I was. At least my boss liked me.” She swipes the letter from off the table. “I’m sorry I ever took this job,” she says over her shoulder as she storms out of his office and out of the squad room.

TJ watches her go, then sighs and shoots off an e-mail to Captain Delghetty, asking how this came about; he knows the scores he gave Cora don’t warrant that kind of reprimand. But he also knows that Delghetty took off at three for a family vacation and will be difficult to reach for the next two days. So Cora will be mad at him for all of Christmas, bringing tension to their celebrations . . . if she even bothers coming.

So suddenly this Christmas is shaping up to be pretty terrible, all things considered.

The last straw comes as he’s walking out of the squad room. Two of the uniforms are giving him dirty looks, which is unexpected; he knows he’s not well liked, but people usually have the sense to keep it to themselves. And on another day he could laugh it off, but today his usual thick skin fails him, and he finds himself spurred to speak. “Something you wanted to say?”

The one cop has the sense to walk away, but the other scowls at him. “Yeah, actually. Just thinking, it’s bad enough you got Patterson fired, but now you’re trying to get Loomis and Vasquez fired too?”

“I didn’t get Patterson fired,” TJ says for what feels like the five hundredth time. “The brass asked me to look into those records. And those records showed he’d been falsifying evidence. I wasn’t going to lie—”

“Of course you weren’t,” mutters the cop as he stalks past TJ to the break room. “Because you put your stupid rules before loyalty to your fellow cops.”

It’s nothing TJ hasn’t heard a hundred times before, but for some reason this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back; everything that’s happened today suddenly piles on top of him at once, a suffocating pile of melancholy and shame and anger, and it leaves TJ walking out of the station in a sort of blank state—so distracted by his thoughts that he doesn’t notice that he’s left his phone in his desk drawer.

The snow is swirling as he steps out into the darkness, but it’s no longer a lovely Christmas snow, full of magic and wonder; it’s heavy and wet and keeps getting into his collar. TJ just tightens his scarf, and hunches his shoulders against the cold, and starts walking—right past his car, and into the night. All he knows is that he can’t go home right now, not with this latest argument with his dad, not with Cora so furious with him. Christmas is ruined. It’s his favorite holiday, and it’s ruined.

He walks in a daze for blocks and blocks with no destination in mind, the dark and the blinding snow a perfect visual metaphor for the bleak cacophony in his head. He’s a disappointment to his dad. Cora wishes she’d stayed a parole officer, rather than join his department. The other cops hate him, and even the public he works so hard to serve have turned on him.

And as he walks, a thought comes into his head: _maybe I should take the job in Boston_. Away from his reputation, away from coworkers who’d be happier with him gone, away from a little blue house in Brooklyn where the Caruso men seem to be incapable of doing anything but disappointing each other. In Boston he could be a new man, start over, change his life. It’s suddenly a very tempting prospect, and for the first time, he seriously considers taking the job.

In time he finds himself back at the station, and, still unwilling to go home, turns a different direction and walks the four blocks to the Brooklyn Bridge. He loves this bridge; it’s not far from his house, and as a child and teenager he came here often to walk and think. So he wanders along the pedestrian walkway until he reaches the center of the river, and he stands in the dark and the swirling snow and stares out over the cars below him, and over the edge of the bridge, at the boats going slowly up and down the East River. He stares, and he feels self-doubt and sadness press in on his chest until he can barely breathe.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

TJ jumps about a foot and turns to see a man standing near him: dark hair, pleasant face, hands clasped in front of him. He’s dressed in a suit and a hat that feel slightly old-fashioned, but TJ doesn’t know enough to fashion to say what it is that’s giving that impression. What’s most remarkable is that he isn’t dressed for the weather—no coat, no gloves—but doesn’t seem to notice the cold at all.

“You wouldn’t?” TJ repeats, and the man nods his head out toward the river. With a start, TJ realizes what he must be referring to. “Oh, I wasn’t going to—” His brow furrows. “I mean, I couldn’t.” The pedestrian walkway is a whole roadway away from the edge of the bridge; it would take quite a bit of effort to jump from here.

“Not from here,” the man agrees. “But there are docks not far from here.” He tilts his head. “That’s what you were thinking, right? About how easy it would be to get on a boat and leave New York forever?”

That is, in fact, precisely what TJ had been thinking, and he frowns.

“Am I right?” asks the man, and when TJ doesn’t answer, he smiles. “Of course I’m right. They let me know what you’re thinking. So I can do my job.”

Ooookay, this guy is either crazy or up to something nefarious, or both.

“Which is how I know,” the man goes on, “that you’re thinking about accepting that job in Boston.”

There’s no way this stranger can know about the job offer without some fairly invasive surveillance, and cop mode kicks in. TJ’s got his gun in his hip holster; there are no other pedestrians nearby; if he needs to run, he’s only a few blocks from the police station, if he runs for the Manhattan side of the river.

Again the man smiles. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he reassures TJ. “In fact, I’m here to help. To save you, really.”

“Who are you?” TJ asks steadily.

“Call me Samuel,” says the man, extending a hand to shake. “I’m your guardian angel.”

And now TJ is leaning more toward “crazy” than “criminal.”

“I didn’t know I had a guardian angel,” he says conversationally, stalling for time.

“You don’t believe me,” the man—Samuel—observes.

“I don’t believe in guardian angels,” TJ agrees.

“Why not?” Samuel asks, and finally drops his hand, apparently giving up on the idea of TJ shaking it. “You believe in angels, don’t you? They talk about us often enough in the Bible you keep in the drawer of your nightstand.”

TJ tenses up again, and Samuel sighs. “Okay, clearly displays of my knowledge are not helpful.” For the first time since meeting he is less than serene as he mutters, “She said you’d be hard to convince.”

“She?” TJ repeats.

But Samuel ignores him. “Point is, guardian angels do exist, and I am yours. There are people who love you, who worry about you and pray for you. I’m here on their behalf.”

TJ doubts literally everything the man just said, but there are more pressing matters on his mind. “How do you know about what I keep in my nightstand drawer?” he demands. “Or the job offer in Boston?”

“Angelic powers,” Samuel answers promptly, and TJ rolls his eyes.

“We’ve already established I don’t believe in guardian angels.”

“That makes your situation a little trickier, but doesn’t change mine,” Samuel says with a smile. “Truth is truth, whether you want to believe it or not.” His brow furrows. “Why don’t you believe in angels?”

“I believe in angels,” TJ says. “I just . . . don’t believe one would appear to me on the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Samuel’s eyes seem to twinkle. “Broaden your mind,” he recommends.

Clearly this is not a fruitful line of inquiry, so TJ switches to a new topic. “Why are you here?”

Samuel’s answer is more forthcoming this time. “To convince you not to take the job in Boston.”

And TJ blinks in surprise. “Seriously? Why?”

“Because it’s not a good choice for you,” says Samuel seriously. “You’ll be unhappy, and so will the people you leave behind.”

At that TJ laughs, an unexpected and bitter sound. “That’s the least believable thing you’ve said so far,” he says. “I have it on good authority that everyone I know thinks I’m a disappointment and a narc and a terrible boss and a bad cop.”

Samuel gives him a sympathetic look. “You know that’s not true.”

“People sure keep saying it pretty emphatically.”

“People say things they don’t mean when they’re upset.”

“I don’t,” TJ points out, and Samuel rolls his eyes.

“Yes, but you’re perfect.”

“Now you sound like Cora,” TJ mutters, and wonders when he stopped worrying that Samuel was up to something nefarious. There’s just something very calming and trustworthy about the man; TJ doesn’t believe him, obviously, but his instincts are telling him that Samuel means him no harm.

“Who will also be unhappy if you move to Boston.”

“If you were an angel, you’d know she hates me most of all.”

“No one in your life hates you,” Samuel says soothingly.

But TJ’s not having it. “Every single person I know would be happier if I weren’t in their lives,” he declares, looking out over the dark river. “In fact, they’d be happiest if I’d never been born at all.”

Melodramatic? Yes, absolutely. But it’s been an upsetting day, and TJ, who keeps his emotions buttoned down tightly most of the time, finds a certain amount of catharsis in making such a melodramatic statement, here in the dark and the snow as the cars whizz by beneath him.

He steals a glance at Samuel, expecting him to look amused or judgmental at his outburst. But instead the man looks very thoughtful. “That’s what you think?” he asks, and smiles. “All right, done. You’ve never been born.”

“I had no idea it was that easy,” says TJ solemnly, suddenly too tired to keep trying to make this strange man see reason.

Samuel’s eyes sparkle. “Check your wallet.”

TJ obligingly pulls his wallet out of his pocket . . . and it’s empty. No cards, no ID, no cash, and he looks accusingly at Samuel. “Was this all an elaborate setup to rob me?” he demands, then hesitates. “Or a street magic show? I hate street magic.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Samuel mutters. “No, I told you, I made it so you’d never been born. So why would a man who doesn’t exist have credit cards or a drivers license?” He grins. “Open your coat.”

Staring suspiciously at Samuel, TJ complies . . . and is shocked to see that the coffee stain on his white shirt is gone. He can believe not noticing a street magician picking his pocket, but he can’t fathom he wouldn’t have noticed a street magician changing his shirt for a clean one, while his coat was still buttoned.

“That woman didn’t run into you outside Dunkin’ Donuts,” Samuel says cheerily. “How could she run into someone who was never born?”

TJ stares, and then he starts fishing around in his pockets for his phone.

“You left it at work,” Samuel informs him. “Shall we go look for it?”

And TJ has had it. “All right, you’re coming with me,” he says. But now he realizes that his handcuffs and his gun are gone too. With an irritated sigh, he grabs Samuel by the arm and begins the walk back to the station.

. . . . . .


	2. Chapter 2

. . . . . .

TJ hauls Samuel across the bridge, back to Manhattan, and down the four blocks to the station. Fortunately, the strange man goes along very willingly.

As they reach the door of the precinct, two officers come down the sidewalk toward him: Gonzalez and Zhang from the 53rd precinct, neither of whom dislikes TJ near as much as some of their fellow officers. And TJ sighs in relief.

“Guys, I don’t have my cuffs on me. Could you cuff this guy for me? I wanna hold him on pickpocketing and . . .” He eyes Samuel. “Several other things, I haven’t quite decided yet.”

And that’s when something strange occurs: Gonzalez just frowns, and Zhang says, “Sir, we can certainly investigate reports of pickpocketing, but we can’t guarantee that NYPD will decide to hold him. We have to decide if we think the accusations have merit.”

TJ blinks in surprise. “I think I can decide whether the accusations have merit,” he says a bit testily.

“Really?” says Gonzalez politely. “And you are . . .?”

Wait, has Gonzalez turned against him now too? “Lieutenant detective,” TJ reminds him. “So I outrank you. By a lot.”

“Sorry,” says Zhang. “Didn’t realize. Which precinct? And where’s your badge?”

TJ reaches down to his belt, but his badge is gone. “Samuel!”

Samuel just smiles beatifically.

“But Victor, Danny, you guys know me.”

Zhang and Gonzalez still look politely confused. “I don’t think we’ve met,” says Zhang. “What did you say your name was?”

The fact that two officers he thought was on friendly terms with have decided to give him a hard time makes him feel worse than ever. “TJ Caruso, All-City Homicide,” he says through gritted teeth.

“All-City Homicide?” repeats Gonzalez, looking genuinely baffled. “Never heard of it.”

“Our squad room is in this building!” TJ exclaims, and gestures toward the set of plaques next to the front door. And then he freezes. The plaque reading “53rd Precinct” is still there . . . but the one that should be underneath it, the one that says “All-City Homicide,” is gone. There aren’t even any holes in the wall to show where it used to be attached.

And TJ stumbles back a step, suddenly reeling.

“This building has only ever housed the 53rd,” says Zhang. “What did you say your name is?”

“TJ Caruso.” His voice has taken on a tinge of desperation. “I’ve worked in this building for four years. Gonzalez, I gave you and your wife a blender for your wedding last month.”

“I’m not married,” says Gonzalez.

TJ blinks.

“He got up the courage to propose because you encouraged him to one night in the break room,” Samuel pipes in. “So if you were never born . . .”

Gonzalez’s face softens. “You think Melinda would say yes if I proposed?”

“Caruso!” Zhang says suddenly. “I remembered why it sounds familiar. There was that dirty cop, right? Huge court case like a decade ago. Any relation?”

They both sound incredibly sincere. And they’re both good guys; they’re not the types to pull such an elaborate prank, or to mess with TJ just for fun. And TJ stumbles back another step. “You know what? Never mind. This was . . .”

“Part of an improv class assignment,” offers Samuel, and TJ nods.

“Exactly. Thanks for being good sports!” And he pulls Samuel away quickly; they stride down the block and around the corner to where TJ parked his car. But here’s another surprise: his car isn’t there. And now that he thinks to check, his keys aren’t in his pockets.

“You never bought that car,” says Samuel. “Because—”

“I was never born, I get it,” says TJ tightly. But he’s still not ready to believe that Samuel is an angel and that TJ Caruso has been erased from existence. “I need to get home,” he mutters. “But I have no money for a taxi—”

“Oh, I’ve got cash,” beams Samuel, and looks down the darkened street. A taxi appears immediately, which both amazes and irritates TJ; taxis are impossible to catch on this street. He  isn’t keen to get into a car with this strange man who knows too much, but he doesn’t know what else to do, and he can’t stop thinking that everything will be better if he can just get home. Big Tony has his flaws, but he’ll be willing to help his son.

So TJ climbs in the taxi and gives his address to the driver, and he and Samuel start making their way to the Caruso home.

Ten minutes later, the taxi pulls over in front of a row of houses.

“This isn’t the right—” TJ says automatically, and then stops himself. It is indeed the right address—he can see the number on the mailbox—but the house looks so different he barely recognized it at first. The whole thing has been painted white. The door is new, the tiny patch of bushes by the front door has been re-landscaped, and the massive Christmas tree that Big Tony put up in the front window a few weeks ago is gone. TJ climbs out of the cab in a state of shock, vaguely aware of Samuel paying the cabbie and coming up to stand next to him.

“Samuel,” he says shakily, “how in the world—” Because if this is all an elaborate trick, there is no way this could have all been done in the last few hours.

“Your father sold the house when your mother died.” Samuel’s voice is unusually gentle, perhaps seeing just how upset TJ is. “No reason to keep it when there was no one to live in it.”

“Sold it? To whom?”

“The Inouye family,” says Samuel promptly. “Very nice people. The twins sleep in what would have been your room.”

TJ turns to stare at him, his eyes lighting up when he sees a familiar figure coming up behind him on the sidewalk. “Mrs. Rosen!” he exclaims, and then remembers Gonzalez and Zhang’s reactions to him. “Do you remember me?” he asks hesitantly. “I . . . used to live in the neighborhood.”

Kindly old Mrs. Rosen peers nearsightedly at him. “I’m sorry, young man, you don’t look familiar. But then I’ve lived in this neighborhood for many years. Maybe there’s just been too many people in and out for me to remember them all.”

Mrs. Rosen was TJ’s first piano teacher, and a sweeter, more charitable woman has never been seen in the city. There’s no way anyone would have convinced her to play some elaborate trick on TJ. And there’s no way she’s forgotten him; he shoveled her walkway just last week, and she invited him in for hot chocolate and reminisced about his first piano recital.

And for the first time, TJ wonders if maybe Samuel is telling the truth.

Or he’s dreaming; TJ surreptitiously pinches himself, which people always seem to do in movies. He feels it, which he supposes is meant to be a sign he’s not dreaming?

The other option, then, is that TJ’s lost touch with reality—some kind of hallucination or psychotic break.

In that case, he hopes Samuel is an angel. It’s better than the alternative.

Mrs. Rosen is still looking curiously at him, so he asks, “I wonder if you remember Tony Caruso, who used to live here.”

Mrs. Rosen shakes her head sadly. “Oh yes, Tony. I still can’t believe what happened there. He had us all fooled.” She sighs. “His poor wife. She deserved better.”

TJ tenses. “Do you know where he is now?”

“You didn’t hear the news?” Mrs. Rosen looks surprised. “It was all over the newspapers. ‘Corrupt cop back in jail after only three months of parole.’”

TJ’s heart sinks. “Back in jail?”

She nods. “I suppose you know his wife died while he was in jail the first time? Well, he sold the house after that; no children to leave it to, and it made no sense to pay to maintain an empty house. So when he got out of jail, he had nowhere to go. Lived with a friend of his for a while—did you ever know Wendell?—but one day they got caught selling . . . oh, I think it was high-end coffee makers, which it turned out had been . . . illegally obtained.” She shrugs. “It was a violation of his parole, and he went back to prison.”

TJ closes his eyes briefly. Then he asks, “Do you know where he is now?”

“Pomonok Correctional Complex,” Mrs. Rosen says promptly.

At least he’s close. TJ thanks Mrs. Rosen and she continues her walk, and then he turns to Samuel. “Can you—”

“Pay for another cab? Of course.”

Again, it’s alarming how quickly a cab appears after Samuel turns to the street—that alone could almost convince TJ of the man's angelic powers—and soon they are on their way to Pomonok.

They manage to get there not long before visiting hours end. For a moment TJ panics—no ID means they won’t let him in—but Samuel is prepared: he hands TJ a very convincing driver’s license, complete with a photograph that TJ doesn’t remember ever sitting for, that declares him to be Walter Bernard Jr. of Connecticut.

“I’ll wait for you out here,” Samuel volunteers, and TJ nods and heads inside.

TJ has seen his father in a prison uniform before, but the sight of his father being led into the room in gray scrubs still hits him like a punch in the gut. Maybe it’s that Tony Sr. looks so tired; even when things were terrible, he always kept a cheerful face on. But now he looks exhausted and defeated. He looks his age for once, is what it is.

The face that TJ finds most familiar in all the world stares back at him with no recognition. “Can I help you?”

And TJ can’t help the word that escapes his mouth, his voice small and shaky. “Dad?”

Tony blinks in surprise. “Dad?” he repeats.

And TJ winces; he’d not meant to lead with that. “Umm . . .”

Tony’s brow furrows and he leans in a little closer, examining TJ closer. “You’re my kid?”

“Umm . . .”

And then, to TJ’s surprise, the tiniest smile lightens Tony’s face. “I always wanted a son.”

TJ can only stare for a moment. “You . . . you accepted the possibility of me being your kid really quickly.”

Tony shrugs, a hint of his old swagger returning. “With my history, it’s definitely possible,” he chuckles. And then something sad and wistful touches his expression. “And you are the spitting image of my brother Joe.”

Of course, Uncle Joe; TJ hadn’t even thought of it, but he’s heard all his life about how much he looks like Uncle Joe, who died when TJ was only three.

“Not to mention, I can’t imagine why else you’d come visit an old con. On Christmas Eve, no less.” He gives TJ a crooked smile. “I’m not exactly popular these days. You’re my first visitor in . . . eight months.”

“Oh,” says TJ in a small voice, and as much as he thinks this version of Tony brought this on himself by so flagrantly violating his parole, it’s still sad to think of his father all alone in this prison, without even letters and visits from his son to keep him company.

Tony leans back. “So who’s your mother?”

And TJ thinks quickly; nothing good will come of saying it’s Connie. He searches his memory for names of his father’s ex-girlfriends, and comes up with “Judy Edwards.”

Tony’s face lights up. “Judy! How’s she doing? I haven’t seen her in . . . well, since before you were born, I guess.”

Oh good, that was a lucky guess on TJ’s part. “Uh . . . Mom’s great. You know, really good.” He can see on his father’s face that he wants to reminisce about Judy, and he quickly turns the subject. “But Dad—” If Tony notices how odd it is that TJ finds it very easy to say “Dad” to address the father he supposedly only met two minutes ago, he says nothing— “how did you end up back in jail? I read in the newspapers that you got out on probation last year.”

And Tony shifts uncomfortably. “You know,” he says. “Just . . . a couple dumb decisions.” And suddenly he looks tired and sad again, the way he was when he was led in. “It’s been hard,” he admits, “since my wife died. I’m alone now, you know?” And then he smiles up at TJ and he looks once again like the bright-eyed father TJ knows. “Although I guess now I know, maybe not completely alone.” His expression is suddenly a bit shy. “I know a convicted felon is probably not what you were hoping for when you set out to find your father. But . . . if you ever wanted to write to me . . . or even come visit . . .”

And TJ can only stare at this vulnerable display from a man he didn’t know was capable of vulnerability. “I didn’t expect to find you so . . . lonely.”

Tony looks embarrassed at that, and TJ immediately backpedals. “I mean, I didn’t expect that you’d be so open to the possibility that you had a son you didn’t know about.”

And Tony shrugs. “Like I said, I always wanted a son.”

This touches off a glow of warmth in TJ’s chest—until he remembers the fight from earlier today, and he finds himself shaking his head. “I don’t know if you’d want me,” he says. “We are . . . very different people. From what I’ve heard.”

“Different?”

“I’m a cop,” TJ begins.

“So was I.”

“Yeah, but . . . I’m a cop who no one likes,” TJ blurts out. “I follow the rules too much. I call out other cops for infractions. I was asked to look into the paperwork of a guy on my squad, and I found out he was falsifying evidence, and I told the brass and he got fired and now his partner hates me. My own partner hates me because I was too honest on her personnel evaluation. I won’t break traffic laws or lie or swear in the squad room. I’m terrible at baseball and I only play poker when y—when people force me into it and I don’t drink alcohol.”

Tony stares at him. “You’re right, we are different.”

TJ shakes his head. “I know, I know, we’re too different—”

“Let me finish,” says Tony. “We are different. And that’s a good thing.” He gives TJ an unconvincing smile. “Sometimes I wonder if my life wouda turned out different if I’d had a partner like that. Or even just someone in my precinct who was willing to stand up to me, call me out when I was doing something stupid. Not to say that what I didn’t was anybody’s fault but mine, but you know . . .” He shrugs. “We need more cops like you out there.”

TJ just lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re saying you’d have appreciated working with me?”

“Oh, no, I’m sure I’da hated you,” Tony says. But then he smiles. “But I’da needed you.” He hesitates. “Or if I’da known I had a son who wanted me to shape up . . .”

And now TJ is more skeptical still. “You think you would’ve cleaned up your act if you’d known about me?”

Tony hesitates, then gives him a half smile. “Honestly, even if I’d met you ten, fifteen years ago, it woulda been too late for me to clean up my act—the stuff I got busted for, I’d already done. But—” he shrugs— “maybe I coulda stayed outta jail this second time.”

TJ is quiet a long moment. “So you’re saying you would’ve been glad to have a son who was a goody two shoes. A narc.”

Tony’s smile is soft and genuine. “I’da been glad to have a son no matter what. And maybe a son who's a narc is exactly what I needed.”

Just then a guard enters the room. “Visiting time is up. Say your goodbyes.”

Tony and TJ stare at each other a moment, and then TJ stands.

“Will you—” Tony looks embarrassed. “Are you thinking you might come back? Some time? Ever?”

TJ hesitates. He’s not used to his father looking at him this way—or is he? Has he just gotten very good at ignoring the affection his father shows him, because that affection is usually accompanied by Tony’s latest stupid decision or statement?

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll come back some time.”

And he turns to leave.

“Wait!” Tony calls. “I never did catch your name.”

And TJ genuinely can’t remember the name on the fake ID Samuel gave him. So he tells the truth. “Anthony Jr.”

And his father grins, surprised and proud, until TJ gets uncomfortable and nods at him and leaves the room.

“So!” Samuel says cheerfully. “You have a good visit?”

TJ can do nothing but nod slowly.

“Good,” says the alleged angel, and sticks out his hand. A taxi appears immediately. “Now let’s go. We’ve got a visit to make before the store closes.”

“What store?” TJ asks as he obediently gets in.

Samuel’s eyes twinkle. “FAO Schwarz.”

. . . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what the process is for visiting someone in jail. Forgive my ignorance.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I didn't research for this chapter: the layout of FAO Schwarz, anything about the toy industry, NYPD pensions, and where parole officers fall into the state of New York's criminal justice organization. Please excuse all the things I got wrong.
> 
> Last chapter should be up Christmas Eve!

. . . . . .

TJ has no idea why they’re heading to a toy store, but he sits quietly as the taxi buzzes along; he supposes that somewhere along the way he got accustomed to the idea that Samuel might actually be an angel, and now he’s no longer fighting him every step of the way.

And the taxi ride might be confirming the angel idea. TJ knows that even at this time of day, on a holiday, it ought to be at least a half hour to get to the heart of Midtown from here. But the taxi makes incredible time, hitting every green light, missing every traffic jam, and somehow they make it to FAO Schwarz in a mere fourteen minutes.

Now that is miraculous.

“All right,” TJ says when they arrive, “what are we doing here?”

“Why don’t we go in and find out?” Samuel asks, and TJ sighs and gets out of the cab and walks toward the toy store.

And then he stops dead in his tracks. “Burl?”

For in front of him is one of the strangest sights he’s ever seen: Burl Loomis, NYPD detective, is dressed as a toy soldier and standing in front of FAO Schwarz, inviting passersby to come finish their Christmas shopping in the flattest tone that TJ has ever heard.

If this is meant to entice shoppers into the store, TJ thinks, they picked the absolute wrong person.

Burl looks over toward TJ at the sound of his name, but as with everyone else they've run into tonight, there’s no recognition on his face. “Can I help you?” he asks drily.

TJ just stares. “How—you’re supposed to be a detective.”

“I was a detective,” Burl corrects. “Past tense. Thanks for bringing it up.”

Samuel must have finished paying the cabbie, because he comes up behind TJ and leads him into the store, leaving Burl out on the pavement in his ridiculous hat and jacket; as they walk away, TJ hears him say to a passerby, “Come check out our selection of toys! Or don’t. I don’t really care.”

“I wouldn’t press Mr. Loomis,” Samuel recommends as the reach the blessedly warm interior of the store. “You know he doesn’t suffer fools under the best of circumstances, and this is far from the best of circumstances.”

“How—”

“He got caught sleeping on the job,” Samuel explains as they make their way through the store. “You weren’t there to wake him up before someone else caught him. Unfortunately, the person who caught him was the Chief of Department. He was fired immediately.”

TJ winces. “That quickly?”

“He was already on thin ice,” Samuel explains. “They could never find anyone willing to partner with him. All his partners requested transfers because he was . . ."

“So lazy,” TJ sighed. “They couldn’t see that he had other strengths.”

Samuel nods. “You’re the only partner who’s stuck with him long-term in the last fifteen years. Without you . . . Anyway, when he got caught sleeping and the Chief of Department wanted to fire him, there was no one to take his side. It was hard to argue with the idea that he was a liability to the NYPD. Without his amazing work on All-City Homicide with you, his record just wasn’t that impressive. Especially with all the complaints from his former partners.”

TJ’s always been afraid of that happening. But still . . . “Burl always said he wasn’t worried about being caught. Because worst-case scenario, he’d have to retire early.”

“Yes, but what he didn’t count on was that they’d garnish his pension, because of the infraction. His new pension isn’t enough to support him and the wife . . . which doesn’t matter, because Mrs. Loomis was so upset with him that they divorced. Again. Feels permanent this time, I’m afraid.”

Another wince, as they climb on the escalator to go up to the second floor. “So he had to take a job . . .”

“Doing security for this store,” Samuel confirms. “But they needed extra help during the holiday season, and he got conscripted into toy soldier duty.”

“He must hate that,” TJ says sympathetically.

“Deeply,” Samuel agrees.

They’ve reached the upper floor now, with all the electronic gadgets. “What are we doing here?” TJ asks.

Samuel simply smiles and motions across the way, and TJ’s eyes widen as he recognizes Ryan, standing among a display of toys in a garish reindeer sweater. The young tech looks as twitchy as ever, and he seems to be trying to keep an eye on both the shoppers that pass by and a display of little toy robots.

TJ refrains from calling out his friend’s name, knowing that he won’t be recognized, although it occurs to him that if anyone would believe that TJ is from an alternate timeline where they are close friends, it would be Ryan. “So what’s his story?” he asks Samuel.

“Ryan? Well, he never really found a place at the NYPD.” Samuel shrugs. “You know Ryan. He . . . doesn’t quite fit in with everyone. And without you to take him in, to accept him with all his quirks, he eventually just quit. The other cops weren't always very accepting.”

“But what about Burl and Cora and Delghetty? What about All-City Homicide?”

“There is no All-City Homicide,” Samuel says, and with a start TJ remembers the missing plaque at the the precinct.

“Yeah, I meant to ask you about that,” he says. “How would my not being born make All-City Homicide disappear?”

And Samuel gives him a gentle smile. “You know they created the squad for you, right?”

TJ blinks. “No, I was their first hire, but—”

But Samuel’s shaking his head. “The chief of police had been considering the idea for a long time, but only if he found the right person to head it. And for years, no one fit the bill. And then you came along; you had the best solve record anyone had seen in a long while, but it was clear that you didn’t thrive in the traditional precinct structure. They didn’t want to lose you. So they created All-City Homicide for you to head.”

This is all news to TJ.

“So if you were never born, the squad was never formed, Burl stayed with the 33rd, Ryan never found a place in the NYPD where he belonged.”

TJ is silent a few moments, processing this, until an unpleasant thought occurs to him. “So all the cases we solved, everyone we put away . . .”

“Some of them were solved,” Samuel says. “You're not the only smart detective at the NYPD.” His expression grows serious. “But some never were. There are murderers on the streets of New York City right now because you never caught them.”

“Did anyone die?” TJ demands. “Has anyone died because All-City Homicide wasn’t there to save them? Or to put away a murderer before they struck again?”

Samuel gives him a small, unhappy smile, and TJ winces. “Maybe it’s worth it, then,” he murmurs.

“Worth it?”

TJ hesitates, then explains, “I heard from Delghetty today. The department might get sued because of a case my team investigated. But we didn’t do anything wrong, I know that, and if the alternative to our investigation would be people dying . . .”

“So you see your value?” Samuel asks. “You see why you should stay with the NYPD?”

Again a hesitation. “I see that it’s good that I’m solving crimes,” he admits. “But I could do that in Boston; people in Boston need protecting too. And none of this changes how much my coworkers hate me.”

Samuel huffs a sigh. “She said you’d be stubborn,” he mutters.

TJ frowns, but before he can respond, there’s a crash, and he looks over to see that Ryan has knocked over a display and is hurriedly trying to clean it up. “You never did finish telling me his story.”

“Ah,” says Samuel. “Well, Ryan quit the NYPD after six months. Decided to focus on his toys full time.”

“Well, that’s nice,” TJ points out, his eyes on his awkward friend. “He’s following his dreams.”

“It’s nice,” Samuel agrees, “but Ryan wasn’t quite ready to make a career of this. He did better when he could work at the NYPD and develop his toys on the weekend. He doesn’t have the know-how yet to do this full time. He’s burned through all his life savings trying to get the last few toys off the ground, and he’s going to lose everything on this latest batch. He managed to get FAO Schwarz to carry them, but they haven’t sold well.”

TJ frowns. “Why is he here?”

Samuel shrugs. “A lot of reasons, not all entirely thought through. He wanted to watch and see if any were purchased. He had some vague idea that he could try to get people interested in his robots, if he were standing next to them. There’s a small part of him that needed to see for his own eyes how unpopular they were.” He hesitates. “Plus, it’s not like he has anywhere else to go. That’s why you were having him over tonight, right? He’s got no one in the city. No one but his video game friends, and they all went elsewhere for Christmas.”

TJ’s stomach twists unpleasantly. He remembers the first time he met Ryan, the tech who was more awkward and lonely than he was. He remembers how loyal the kid was to TJ’s team from the very start, and he remembers Burl pointing out that it was probably because they were the only cops in the building who didn’t make fun of him. He remembers going to Delghetty and requesting that Ryan be assigned to their team full time. And he suddenly wants more than anything to go hug his friend. That might be weird, though, considering the pair of them have never met in this world.

“Okay,” he murmurs to Samuel, “so maybe I’m starting to see your point.”

“Good,” Samuel grins. “We’ve got two more stops tonight.”

And TJ doesn’t even hesitate before following Samuel back to the escalators. Maybe it’s foolish for him to follow this man around the way he is, but the fact is that TJ is in too deep to stop now. He still doesn’t know whether he thinks this is a dream, or a hallucination, or an actual angelic visitation, but he’s been sucked in, and he’s too intrigued to stop. He has to see the night out.

“I suppose we’re seeing Cora next,” TJ observes as they leave the toy store; he sneaks one last glance back at Burl because as sad as it is to see him reduced to this, it’s also hilarious and he knows he’ll never get the chance to see his friend dressed up like a toy soldier again.

“That would make sense,” Samuel agrees reasonably as he hails a taxi and they climb in.

TJ idly wonders what she’s been up to, what she would’ve been doing without him around . . . and then he freezes. “Cora,” he says again, fear suddenly creeping up on him.

Samuel turns to look at him, a concerned look on his face.

“Cora,” he repeats. “Warren!” His stomach twists painfully as he demands, “Samuel, is she dead?”

Samuel looks surprised, and then his brows furrow in confusion, and TJ suddenly wants to grab him by the lapels of his coat and shake him. “Answer the question,” he says too loudly, fighting hard to keep his rising panic under control.

“She’s not dead,” Samuel says, and TJ feels all the tension rush out of him at once, leaving him like a marionette with its strings cut. “I apologize, Anthony, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

TJ leans heavily back against the seat. “So who stopped Warren, if I wasn’t here?”

“She never met Warren,” Samuel says. “Without meeting you, and helping you stop Chet Finch, she never had the guts to finally take the detective’s exam. Without the increased salary, she couldn’t afford to hire a genealogist, so Evelyn and Warren never targeted her.”

TJ exhales slowly. “So in a way, she’s better off without me.”

Samuel gives him a kind but skeptical look. “Let’s just see.”

They pull up a minute later in front of a dull gray office building labeled “NYC Department of Corrections.” Samuel produces a card from his pocket and swipes it through the key card reader by the front door; the door clicks open, and Samuel leads the way inside.

TJ is now officially uncomfortable that they have fraudulently gained access to a government building—does it count as criminal trespassing if you’re accompanied by an angel?—but he quickly sees something that drives the thought from his mind: to his right is a large bullpen area, mostly abandoned and quiet, computers off, lights low, but in one corner, a figure he knows very well indeed, tapping away at her keyboard.

“Can I help you?” Cora asks, looking up.

“No, I have business upstairs,” Samuel says cheerfully. “But my colleague here could use a drink, if you’d be kind enough to show him where the water cooler is.” And he heads confidently off in what TJ assumes is the direction of the elevator.

Cora looks surprised a moment, then shrugs and stands from her desk. “It’s over here,” she says, and leads the way to a water cooler. TJ is actually pretty thirsty, now that it’s been pointed out to him, and he thanks her and gets himself a cup. “So,” he says conversationally, because he feels like under normal circumstances this would be the moment to make polite conversation, “stuck working late on Christmas Eve?”

Cora makes a face and leans against a nearby table; TJ can read her well enough to see that she’s grateful for the distraction from her paperwork. “We had some stuff that absolutely _had_ to get done, apparently.”

TJ takes a moment to surreptitiously examine her from the corner of his eye. She looks the same as she always does—jeans, leather jacket, hair slicked back in a ponytail—but there’s something sad and tired lurking at the corners of her eyes. “And you drew the short straw?”

She shrugs. “Always do,” she jokes. And then she hesitates. “Everyone else had family stuff. Kids to get home to. I didn’t want to ruin their Christmases.”

“Ah,” says TJ. “And you had . . . nothing to get to?”

He knows the expression she puts on then; it’s the one she uses when she thinks she’s being devil-may-care, but doesn’t realize that she’s not quite pulling it off. “I’m not really into Christmas,” she shrugs. “Never really been a fan.”

Cora, he knows perfectly well, loves Christmas. He’s never seen her so excited as when he told her they were going to make a gingerbread house as part of the Christmas Day festivities. “So, no plans?” he presses.

“Probably eating Chinese food tomorrow,” she jokes. “Not because I like it, but because it’s the only place in my neighborhood that’s open on Christmas.”

And TJ imagines his friend sitting alone on Christmas Day, no friends or family, eating takeout chow mein. And his heart aches for her. “So, you like this job?” he asks, desperate to change the subject.

She shrugs. “It’s all right. Lot of work, not much pay, but I feel like what I’m doing is . . . useful, you know?”

“You ever thought about doing anything else?”

It’s a forward question to ask someone that (as far as she’s aware) he only just met, but she takes it in stride. “Maybe,” she shrugs. Then hesitates. “I always kinda wanted to be . . .”

She trails off, unwilling to finish, and TJ fills in, “A detective?”

She looks surprised, and he explains, “I don’t know, you give off a detective vibe. Plus you’re already working in the criminal system, and you said you like feeling like you’re doing something useful. Plus it’d be a step up, right?”

Cora’s eyes light up. “Yeah, that’s actually exactly what I want to do. You think I ‘give off a detective vibe’?”

“I think you should go for it,” TJ tells her, partly because he knows she makes a great detective and partly because the smile that’s on her face now is better than the sadness that was there a moment ago.

Cora smiles. "Thanks," she says, then adds, "I never caught your name."

"Anthony Caruso," TJ answers without thinking, and Cora's eyes go wide.

"Seriously?" she says. "Like Tony Caruso? The Caruso Commission?"

TJ winces. "Yep, like that." He hopes she doesn't ask if there's any relation, because even on this surreal night, he'd prefer not to lie.

But she just laughs. "I was his PO," she says, clearly expecting him to be shocked and amused by that info.

So he smiles. "What was that like?"

She shakes her head. "He was impossible to keep in line. Couldn't get or hold down a job, dodged our check-ins, just a tough, tough case. He ended up getting caught with stolen goods and going back to jail, did you hear?"

"I heard," sighs TJ. He hesitates, then figures he's not lying about his identity if he says, "It's never done me any favors, having the same name as that guy."

“I believe it,” she chuckles. And then she hesitates. “I never really liked my name,” she confesses quietly. “The story is my dad wanted to name me Cora after his sister, but I never knew why my mom went along with it, since he left right after I was born. And Vasquez I get from my stepdad, but he . . . never really liked me.”

She never told him that, in the real timeline. Part of him wants to be offended that she's more open with him when he's a stranger than when he's her boss and friend, but a larger part of him suspects that it's loneliness that's making her so talkative.

So he just tells her honestly, “I think it’s a beautiful name. And it suits you.” He hesitates. “And pardon me if this is is presumptuous, but you seem great. If your stepdad didn’t like you, he was an idiot.”

She gives him a quiet smile. “Thanks.”

He's not used to her like this; she's . . . small, somehow, not the fiery, confident, larger-than-life Cora he's come to know and love. It's the prospect of spending the holidays alone, he imagines, based on things she's said in the past; he knows she feels the loneliness of her life more keenly than she lets on. He'd have supposed she'd have friends to spend holidays with, but apparently not. Not any close enough to invite her over for Christmas, anyway.

And it's on the tip of his tongue to say something—he hardly knows what, it's not like he could invite her over for Christmas, since he doesn't actually exist in this world—when the elevator dings and Samuel walks out. “Well, let's be on our way,” he tells TJ, and TJ knows he isn't imagining the slight slump of Cora's shoulders. Again, it's surely just the loneliness of the holidays—come January, surely she'll be fine—but he hates seeing her this way.

“I assumed she'd have friends she could spend holidays with,” he tells Samuel when they're outside and away from Cora's hearing.

But Samuel shakes his head. “None who are that close. Especially since she works so much. The All-City Homicide squad is her family and her friends.”

TJ is silent a moment. “But if I went to Boston, she'd still have Burl and Ryan and my dad. And she'd probably be just as happy. Because you can't deny, she is always picking a fight with me over something or other.”

“She's got a temper on her,” Samuel agrees with a chuckle. “Everyone's got a flaw or two that they need to work on, and this is hers. So the question is: are you willing to be patient while she works on it?”

TJ hesitates.

And Samuel smiles. “Come on, one more person to visit.”

. . . . . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Merry Christmas!

. . . . . .

TJ has no idea where Samuel is taking him; they've already visited everyone he'd have expected them to. Maybe they're visiting Captain Delghetty? One of the Carusos’ neighbors?

But he’s sure he doesn’t know anyone who lives on the street they pull into on the far side of Brooklyn. This is one of the poorer areas of the city, the places that tourists never see, the neighborhoods you don’t enter at night if you don’t absolutely have to. It’s a dingy street lined with dingy shops and dingy apartment buildings, and Samuel points the driver toward one of these buildings.

And then—why doesn’t this surprise TJ?—Samuel goes around to the trunk of the taxi and pulls out a massive box of wrapped gifts and takes it inside the building, confirming TJ’s suspicion that these have not been normal taxi cabs they’ve been riding in.

There’s a noisy elevator that takes them up to the eleventh floor—small blessings; TJ was not in the mood to climb that many stairs—and then Samuel knocks on door of 11F.

“So who lives here?” TJ asks.

“No one you know,” Samuel says cheerfully, and then the door opens.

There’s a woman on the other side, probably no older than TJ, probably very pretty under different circumstances, but now looking tired and stressed and very, very pregnant. She looks suspiciously at them until Samuel hefts the box.

“We’re from the Angel Tree charity!” he says in his usual cheerful way. “You should have heard from the office to expect us?”

The transformation on the woman’s face is stunning; the stress clears to make way for a relieved smile, and TJ sees he was right: she’s pretty, when she doesn’t look like the world is weighing on her shoulders. “Sorry, I should have known,” she said, stepping back to allow them into the apartment, “but they said you’d be here this morning, so I’d given up waiting.”

“Very sorry about that,” Samuel says sincerely. “Things got very backed up.”

They reach the living room and TJ sees that it is tidy and in good repair, but undeniably old and cheaply furnished. A family photo, of the sort one gets taken at a department store, shows the woman they are speaking to looking far younger and happier; there’s a man with a kind face next to her, and three children around them. There are a few stockings on the wall, and an artificial Christmas tree in one corner, but in those stockings and under that tree are only a few tiny presents.

Which Samuel quickly rectifies, setting the box down on the couch and starting to pull presents out of it. “Let’s get started,” he says, and the woman steps over and peeks into the box for the first time, at the rather impressive amount of presents in there—and starts to cry.

“Maria!” says Samuel immediately, his face full of concern.

She waves a hand off, laughing through her tears. “I’m fine. It’s just—thank you. I really thought the kids weren’t going to get Christmas this year at all, and . . . and _thank you_.” The fervency in her voice makes TJ want to cry a little too.

Samuel smiles gently at her, then shoots a look at TJ. “Come make yourself useful, young man,” he chuckles, and TJ obediently comes over and starts sorting through the small gifts, matching the names on them to the names on the stockings. Samuel sorts through the large gifts until he finds one that must be meant for Maria, because he hands it to her with a smile. Maria holds the box on her lap and runs her fingers over the top almost reverently.

“I’m sorry, I’m not normally such a mess,” she laughs, wiping tears from her face. “It’s these pregnancy hormones, plus the holidays . . .”

TJ, passing the couch, gives her what he hopes is a warm, sympathetic smile, and fights the urge to shoot Samuel a questioning look. It’s touching, truly, to be part of this charitable work. But he still has no idea who this woman is or what connection this has to Samuel convincing him of his worth.

“I imagine this has been a stressful time,” says Samuel kindly. He hesitates. “I hope this doesn’t upset you, but . . . I know about Michael. And I’m so sorry for you and your family.”

This does prompt a fresh wave of tears from Maria, and she shakes her head. “He didn’t do it,” she says firmly. “I know my husband; he’s not that sort of person. He’s not a criminal. They got the wrong guy.”

“I believe you,” says Samuel simply.

He shoots a glance at TJ, who is piecing together a guess as to what’s going on. Samuel seems to expect him to say something, so TJ says sympathetically, “This must put you in a very difficult position.” Maria just nods bleakly, and TJ feels the need to say more. So he sits beside her on the couch. “My father served seven years,” he says quietly. “It was the hardest seven years of my life—and I knew for sure he was guilty. I can’t imagine what it would’ve been like to go through if I’d been certain he was innocent.”

“It’s unbearable,” Maria whispers. “I just keep thinking, if we’d been able to afford a better lawyer, he could’ve proved that cop was lying.”

And TJ freezes; the timing can’t possibly be right, but still . . . “And this happened recently?”

“Three months ago,” Maria says with a shaky sigh.

And TJ relaxes a little. At least the cop in question wasn’t his father.

The three of them finish unpacking the box in silence. When they are done, Samuel glances over at the crucifix hung on the wall, and clasps Maria’s hand. “We’ll pray for you,” he says.

Maria smiles at the both of them, her tears now dried. “Thank you both. For everything.”

“Merry Christmas,” smiles TJ, as Maria shows them to the door.

The elevator ride back to the ground floor is quiet as TJ turns things over in his head. When they step into the lobby, he turns to Samuel. “The cop who got her husband put away was Patterson, wasn’t it?”

Samuel nods solemnly.

“He falsified evidence to close the case,” TJ guesses. “To . . . improve his arrest record. Impress the top brass.”

Samuel nods again. “Delghetty had her suspicions and assigned someone to look into him, but the man wasn’t as thorough as you were; truth was that he didn’t want to find anything, really. He didn’t want to deal with the fallout of reporting a fellow cop for misbehavior.”

TJ is quiet for a long few moments. And then he heaves a shaky sigh.

“I wish I could tell you things will change at the NYPD.” Samuel’s voice is sympathetic. “I wish I could tell you that your coworkers will see your value, and stop giving you a hard time, but the truth is many of them won’t. Things _will_ get better, slowly, over time. But there will always be people who want to bend the rules for their own gain, and these people will always dislike you. No one takes the truth to be harder than the person who’s got sins to hide.” He gives TJ a sad little smile. “Though the truth is that things will be the same in Boston. They’d be the same in many places. You’re a good cop, Anthony. And unfortunately, being a good person, doing the right thing, will never be an easy path to walk.”

TJ nods slowly, and then he looks back at the elevator behind them; he thinks of apartment 11F, where Maria is preparing to spend her first Christmas without her husband. “But doing the right thing is the right choice,” he says quietly.

“Always,” Samuel agrees with a smile.

And TJ looks over at him. “I’m a good cop,” he says slowly, tasting the truth of the words as they flow from his mouth. “And I can do a lot of good in that position. And there will always people who hate that about me, but sometimes that’s the price you pay for doing the right thing.”

Samuel nods. “It is.”

“And things will be the same in Boston, because I’m not going to change who I am. And at least here, I’ve got people I love, who love me. Even if we fight sometimes.”

Samuel is beaming now. “So what have you decided?”

And TJ smiles even as he sighs, feeling the weight of the day falling from his shoulders, leaving him lighter than air. “I’m not taking the job in Boston.”

Samuel grins from ear to ear. “That’s my boy,” he says gently, and leads TJ outside, and hails a taxi that appears immediately.

Together they ride back toward the Carusos' neighborhood.

“So do you disappear now? Or do you keep watching over me?” TJ asks.

“I keep watching over you,” says Samuel, “but you won’t see me. This was an extenuating circumstances sort of situation.”

“Why me?” TJ asks. “Why not all the other people who are in moments of crisis?”

“They get their own sort of help,” Samuel says. “But you had someone advocating for you pretty hard up there.”

TJ’s brow furrows—and then he remembers that twice tonight, Samuel has mentioned some mysterious “she” who’s been talking about him. And he swallows hard. “Who is it?”

Samuel gives him a gentle smile. “Connie says hello,” he says quietly. “She wants you to know how proud she is of you.”

There’s a prickling in TJ’s eyes, and suddenly his vision blurs with tears. He looks down and blinks rapidly until they’re clear again. “You’ve talked to her?” he asks shakily, his gaze fixed on his knees.

There’s no answer. TJ looks up, and Samuel is gone.

But the cabbie is looking at him in the rear view mirror, a confused look on his face. “Were you talking to me, buddy?”

TJ blinks. When they got in the cab, the driver was a black woman, he’s sure of it. In fact, the entire cab has changed—the seats are a different color, the dice hanging on the rear view mirror are new, and the radio is suddenly silent, when he swears it was playing Silent Night just a moment ago.

“Uh, no,” he says. “Just . . . thinking out loud.”

And he sinks back in his seat, staring out the window as his mind whirls over the last few hours . . . and then he smiles.

When they reach the Carusos’ street, TJ’s heart lifts to see that the house is back to its old color, and the tree that Tony Sr. put up is in the window again. And in fact here’s Tony himself, pacing on the sidewalk in front of the house, talking on his cell phone. The taxi comes to a stop and TJ realizes he’ll have to pay the man; fortunately, when he pulls out his wallet, all his cards and cash are back. And he grins and climbs out of the cab.

Tony somehow missed the cab’s approach, but at the sound of the door shutting he whips around quickly, and when his eyes lock on his son’s his whole body sags in relief. “Anthony!” he exclaims, and runs to throw his arms around TJ.

TJ blinks in surprise. “Uh, hi, Dad.”

“Where you been?” Tony demands, pulling back to examine TJ’s face but keeping his hands on his shoulders. “We’ve all been worried sick. Are you hurt?”

“No, I just . . .” TJ glances down at his watch, and winces. It’s just after ten, and he was expected home at seven. No wonder they were worried. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I . . . ran into someone, and we got to talking, and I lost track of time.”

A glimmer of amusement shows through the tension still on Tony’s face. “My responsible son lost track of time,” he chuckles. “There’s a first time for everything.” He grabs TJ’s face and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t do that to me again,” he says fervently, and hugs him again. “We didn’t know if you’d been in accident, or if an investigation had gone sideways, or . . . and all I could think was how stupid I was this afternoon. If that was the last thing I ever said to you, I’da never forgave myself.”

TJ had not even been thinking about how people might be worrying—well, honestly, he’d assumed they wouldn’t really mind—and regret washes over him. “I’m sorry to make you worry, Dad,” he says into his father’s shoulder.

Tony just holds him tighter. “I love you, Junior. And I’m sorry about anything I ever said that could make you think otherwise. Your old man hasn’t always been . . . very good at all this. But you’re my son. You’re all I got.”

TJ squeezes his father firmly. And then he steps back. “I love you too. Which is why, after Christmas is over, we’re going to have a serious talk about some of your activities. Like dealing in stolen goods.” He squeezes his father’s shoulder. “Because you’re all I’ve got too. And I cannot bear the thought of you going back to prison.”

Tony stares at him. And then he nods, his eyes suddenly suspiciously bright. “That’s probably a good conversation to have,” he concedes, and then leads TJ up the front steps and into the house.

“He’s home!” Tony yells, and Ryan and the Loomises stand from the couch, relief on their faces, and come over to hug him.

“I’m so sorry,” TJ says over and over. “I didn’t mean to ruin everyone’s Christmas Eve.” He tells them his story again about running into someone and losing track of time—none of it a lie, he would like it to be noted—and though he can see in their behavior and their expressions how worried they were, they are all quick to forgive him and declare that they’re just happy he’s home safe.

And it’s such a relief to see Ryan and Burl here, not spending a sad and lonely Christmas Eve at a toy store, that he finds himself telling them, “By the way, I want you to know, I’m so glad we’re a team. I can’t imagine my life without you guys in it.”

Burl refrains from a dry remark for once, just giving TJ a quiet smile. “You too.”

And Ryan has silent tears pouring down his cheeks. “Thanks, Lieutenant,” he says unsteadily, and TJ grins.

“And Burl,” he adds in a quiet voice, so the man’s wife doesn’t overhear, “I just want you to know, I’m not the one who reported you for sleeping.”

Burl looks surprised. “Oh, I know. That was Gomez. Delghetty told me.”

“Oh, speaking of Delghetty,” says Ryan, “she e-mailed. That guy’s already dropped the lawsuit against All-City Homicide. Apparently his lawyer told him he didn’t have a chance.”

TJ stares at them, thinking of the anguish and stress he was feeling earlier—and then he laughs, his shoulders sagging in relief.

And then he looks around. “Is . . . Cora here?” he asks hesitantly, wondering if she’s still mad enough at him that she didn’t come.

As though on cue, the front door opens and Cora bursts in. “He hasn’t been back to the squad room,” she announces. “But I found his phone in his desk—”

And then she looks up and sees TJ and, like the others, nearly sags in relief. “Caruso,” she says, and takes a step forward, and then hesitates.

“C’mon,” Tony says to the others, “I finally have an appetite. Let’s go warm up dinner.” And he ushers Ryan and the Loomises into the kitchen, leaving TJ and Cora alone.

“I’m sorry,” TJ tells her. “I should have called, but, as you found out, I didn’t have my phone—”

“No,” says Cora, her eyes fixed on TJ’s face, and then she grimaces. “I mean, yes, you should’ve called. Where were you? We were worried sick. But no, you shouldn’t be apologizing, I should be apologizing.” She takes a step forward. “Delghetty called after I left work; she got your email and she looked into it and found it was a clerical error; that letter wasn’t meant for me. But even before she called, I should have trusted you enough to know you wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t tell me I got one score and then change it behind my back.” She hesitates, looking uncomfortable. “You . . . I flew off the handle. I do that sometimes, especially with you, and it’s not fair. I just . . . I always think I’m so smart, and that I’m always right, and you’re the only person in my life who challenges me, and makes me see how I can improve, and instead of appreciating that, I let it tick me off sometimes. And I’m so sorry, TJ, and I’m going to do better, I swear.”

A weight that’s been on his chest since she yelled at him in his office floats away, and TJ finds himself smiling. “I appreciate you saying that,” he says. “And I forgive you.”

She lets out a relieved little laugh, and she finally smiles at him. “I don’t deserve you, I really don’t.” She hesitates, then shakes her head. “You don’t know how worried I’ve been all night—I was such a jerk to you, and then you disappeared and I just kept thinking that if something happened to you and our last conversation was that fight . . .”

He watches her fret with a smile on his face. “Cora,” he breaks in gently, “I do hope we can find ways to discuss our concerns without fighting in the future. But Cora . . .” He hesitates, but he has just had the craziest evening of his life. He can be brave. “You’re one of the most important people in my life. And nothing’s going to change that.”

Cora looks up at him with a small smile, unsure but hopeful. “You too,” she says. “Or, umm, me too. About what you said.”

And TJ grins; it’s nice, for once, not to be the one who doesn’t know what to say.

He couldn’t say what suddenly draws his attention upwards, but he glances up and sees a sprig of mistletoe hanging overhead; Tony must have put it up earlier, because it wasn’t there this morning. Cora follows his gaze, and then maybe it’s a trick of the light, or maybe she actually blushes. Although that doesn’t sound like something she’d do.

Either way, she gives TJ a little smile, and that’s enough for him to lean forward and press a kiss to her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Cora.”

Her smile grows. “Merry Christmas, TJ.”

When they turn toward the back of the house, Ryan and Burl are setting the table in the dining area while Mrs. Loomis and Tony heat up the meal that they never got around to eating, and soon they are all gathered around a very late Christmas Eve dinner.

“I love Christmas dinner!” Ryan declares once they’ve said grace, then adds in a terrible British accent, “God bless us, every one.”

Burl snorts, and Mrs. Loomis looks amused. Across the table, Cora shoots TJ a little smile, and next to him, Tony reaches over to pull his son toward him and press a kiss to his hair.

“Wouldn’t be Christmas without you, son.”

And TJ looks around at his little family, and he smiles. “Wouldn’t be Christmas without you guys, either.”

And he makes a mental note to email the Boston PD. He really ought to let them know won’t be taking the job.

. . . . . .

fin


End file.
